


Falling In

by elenajames



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Light Angst, M/M, Power Imbalance, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/elenajames
Summary: He’s not used to being in a suit and tie for a date, not used to being being picked up by a driver and chauffeured downtown. It speaks to Tom’s standing and the lack of Mike’s; he’s lucky to be considered by Tom Wilson, something his parents and siblings have reminded him of more than once.





	Falling In

Mike has a date. At least, that’s how he’s trying to think of it. A date is a lot less intimidating than meeting your prospective future husband for the first time. He’s not used to being in a suit and tie for a date, not used to being being picked up by a driver and chauffeured downtown. It speaks to Tom’s standing and the lack of Mike’s; he’s lucky to be considered by Tom Wilson, something his parents and siblings have reminded him of more than once.

 

“Be good, Michael. I’m sure you will make a good first impression,” his mom had said on the phone merely an hour ago, her voice still gentle if weary. 

 

He’s trying to. His suit is clean and pressed, the boutineer he’d been sent carefully pinned in place, and his hair styled as best he knows how. Michael’s nervous about stepping into the restaurant, the place more upscale than any of the places he’s been to before. The hostess smiles at him, gentle as though she can sense his anxiety. 

 

“Um. Wilson, party of four?” he says questioningly, heart stuttering in his chest. 

 

Her smile brightens further as she rounds the podium. “Right this way, sir. The rest of your party has already arrived.” 

 

Mike sincerely hopes that doesn’t mean they’re going to think he’s late. It’s just past seven by his watch, and the car that picked him up had been right on time. To his relief, no one at the table seems perturbed. 

 

“Michael?” A dark-haired man about his own age rises from the table, reaching out to shake his hand. 

 

“Ah, Mike, please.” 

 

“Mike,” he repeats with a smile. “I’m Tom. Tom Wilson.” 

 

Forcing his lips up in an attempt of a smile, Mike dips his head deferentially. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

 

“Pleasure’s all mine. Please, come join us.” 

 

Tom introduces Mike to his parents, the two of them nice enough, curious more than anything. They keep the conversation flowing when it otherwise would’ve stuttered, asking Mike about his family and himself. He tries to give good answers while managing to get through dinner; thankfully, he’d gone with a simple steak, and was able to avoid dripping or spilling anything on himself or the tablecloth. 

 

“Your dossier says you play for Milwaukee,” Tom says carefully when the waitress is bringing them dessert. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike can see Tom’s parents smile at each other. 

 

“Yeah. I do.” He knows Tom plays for the Capitals, had gone up during playoffs last season and stayed. Mike hates that he’s in the minors, still, had hoped an NHL career would help his standing, but no luck so far. At least being a professional athlete on some level is a point in his favor, especially since they both play hockey.

 

What worries him more is what  _ isn’t _ in his dossier - the etiquette courses, school certifications, notable references. Tom, thankfully, doesn’t seem to want to talk about that; it’s easy enough to let the conversation turn to hockey, even if they avoid the Capitals’ too-early exit from the playoffs last year. Tom’s parents are indulgent, if amused, and both of them clearly know plenty about the game. Still, they excuse themselves first, bidding them both goodnight and leaving an odd sort of lull to settle over the table. 

 

Tom shifts nervously, reaching into his pocket and Mike can feel his heart rate spike. Sure enough, Tom reveals a little black box that he pulls open and places it on the table. The ring inside is simple, a broad, black tungsten band. Capitals’ red lines the inside and the single groove etched into the surface. 

 

“You don’t have to wear it,” Tom murmurs, “not if you don’t want to. Or if you don’t like it.” 

 

His parents had hoped this would be the outcome of tonight, and, apparently, Mike hasn’t fucked their arrangements up yet. Taking a deep breath, Mike reaches for it, running his fingers over the smooth surface before plucking it out of the box. He slides it on, feeling the cool weight settle on his hand. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, but his decision was made for him, long before he walked into this restaurant. 

 

“Thank you. It’s very - It’s lovely.” His mom would be pleased, he thinks. Tom, at least, smiles at him, reaching for his hand and squeezing it lightly. 

 

They don’t manage to pick the conversation back up, words only coming in starts and stops, and eventually Tom waves for the check and calls them both cars. He gives Mike a tentative peck on the cheek before opening the car door for him. 

 

“It was nice to meet you, Mike. Thank you for coming.” 

 

Mike trembles a little once the door is shut behind him, and he’s grateful that the driver doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He clenches his hands to mask the shaking, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and calls his mom to deliver the good news.

 

* * *

 

Mike doesn’t know anything about weddings, but Tom doesn’t seem to either. He feels a little guilty that he can’t contribute as much to paying for the wedding planner and the rest of the arrangements, but Tom swears he doesn’t mind. 

 

“Dude, my parents are putting up most of it. They wanted a big wedding, not me,” he insists. “You’re sure the, ah,  _ charcoal and burgundy _ are okay?” 

 

Unlocking his phone again, Mike looks over the swatch of colors Tom had texted him. He’s not really sure why, but he wants to at least make it seem like he’s trying. “Yeah, they look good. It um. It’ll match our rings.” 

 

Tom had also sent photos of the rings he’d bought for them. They’re tungsten, just like the engagement band on Mike’s finger, but grey and lined with rose gold. They match aside from the single diamond inlaid in Mike’s. 

 

A soft laugh comes over the line, pulling Mike back to the conversation at hand. “Yeah, I guess so. Look, ah. I’ll call you later, yeah? I gotta head to practice.” 

 

“Sure. Sounds good.” 

 

Mike stares at the pictures a while longer before locking his phone and tossing it aside. He gets similar calls and texts throughout the following weeks, getting asked about everything from food to napkins. At least he knows that Tom is only asking out of duty instead of any personal investment; he always takes Mike’s feedback with good humor, taking time instead to talk about hockey and ask after Mike’s family. It’s nice, in a way, getting to know Tom, however casually. It makes it easier to gloss over the anxiety the not-so-distant future they’ll share causes. 

 

Mike’s wedding day comes late May, dawning bright and hot, hot enough that he doesn’t bother changing until he’s actually at the venue. The dressing room he’s shown to is extravagant, clearly meant for a large party of bridesmaids or groomsmen. As it stands, it’s only Mike until his mom slips in the room, tutting about the state of his hair and the straightness of his tie. She straightens both for him before his father gets ushered in by the wedding planner, and the whirlwind only picks up from there. There are staged areas set up for pictures, more pictures than Mike has ever posed for in his  _ life _ , he’s sure, but he bears it with all the grace he can muster. Tom, at least, spares a moment to break his practiced facade to grimace at Mike when the photographer ushers them into another cheesy pose. 

 

“See you soon,” Tom says softly as they’re chased off to different parts of the venue. They’re getting close to time, and Mike’s mom fusses over his suit one more time before it’s her turn to be walked down the aisle.

 

Music picks up somewhere and Mike tries to focus on his breathing. He nearly misses his cue, only managing to step through the open double doors at the nudge of a nearby usher. Everyone is on their feet, angled so they can see him. The attention makes his face heat and he nearly stumbles. Tom’s watching from the altar, so Mike tries to focus on him and him only, grateful when he takes the single step up to stand next to him. 

 

Mike can’t say he remembers much after that. He follows the prompts of the priest, dutifully allows Tom to slide the wedding band onto his finger, and leans into the chaste kiss they exchange. There are papers to be signed quickly, and then they’re whisked from the chapel of the venue to the reception area. It feels like the two of them stand in line for hours, shaking hands and giving awkward hugs to people they only sort of know. Mike tries to take note of the people Tom greets with true enthusiasm, hoping he can at least remember their faces because he knows he won’t remember their names. 

 

Tom takes point here, having the social standing and a better handle on the etiquette than Mike does. He knows what’s expected of them, and delivers a heartfelt thank-you speech for those who attended and helped organize everything as servers whisk plates of food around the tables. Mike doesn’t even realize he’s hungry until there’s a plate being set in front of him, and he waits just long enough for Tom to sit back down before digging in. 

 

Following cues Mike doesn’t quite catch, a few of their family members and friends give speeches throughout the course of the meal, and then he’s being gently guided up and out of his seat for their first dance. Tom leads, keeping his steps simple and easy to follow. Even so, Mike feels stiff and ungainly, and he tenses when Tom sighs just a little.

 

“Hey,” Tom says, pressing his mouth close enough to Mike’s ear that his breath ghosts warmly along his cheek. His hand tightens a little where it rests on Mike’s hip, drawing him closer. “You okay? You’re doing just fine.” 

 

“I’m okay.” Mike knows he’s mumbling, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like anyone else is close enough to hear him, anyway. He’s too aware of the eyes on them and the uncoordinated way he’s following Tom’s lead through their first dance, and then a second as the rest of the guests join them. Fumbling his way through the little twirl Tom puts him through, Mike’s grateful when the song ends and something faster picks up because Tom leads him away from the dance floor and back to their seats. 

 

Someone brings them fresh drinks and Tom waves down a waiter who drops a new tray of hors d'oeuvres off as he whisks through the crowd. Mike waits for Tom to grab a few bites before reaching for a bacon-wrapped something or other that turns out to be seafood. It’s good, regardless, but not what Mike expected and his face must show it. Tom laughs, amused but not cruelly so. 

 

“I did the same thing once. Scallops. They’re not bad, eh?” Plucking one from the neat array, Tom pops one in his mouth and grins close-mouthed as he chews. Mike can feel himself smiling, quietly grateful for his new husband’s easy-going attitude. 

 

“Yeah. Not bad.” 

 

People trickle by the table to congratulate them, and Mike gets introduced to more friends and family than he’s ever going to be able to remember. Mostly, he’s trying not to embarrass Tom or himself, keeping his conversations polite but brief. A few of his friends pull him up to dance or ply him with drinks, dumping him back into his seat when he’s good and tipsy. 

 

“Having a good time?” Mike half-expects Tom to be mad, but he’s pink-cheeked and grinning as he knocks their shoulders together. Someone starts up a call for them to kiss and - awkwardly - they oblige, brushing their mouths together. 

 

Slowly but surely, people start trickling out. They’d agreed to take their leave at 10, regardless of the state of the party, and Mike can feel his gut clench when Tom waves for one of the attendants, asking for a car to be brought around for them. 

 

Tom opens the door for him, letting Mike slide in first before slipping in behind him. They wind up on their phones, liking Instagram photos and sending thank yous out enmasse. Mike tries not to fidget too much, but the closer they get to Tom’s - and now Mike’s - new condo, the more anxious he feels. 

 

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Tom’s just got the door closed behind them, suit jacket shucked off and dangling from his hand. 

 

“Nothin’, just tired.” He follows Tom through the unfamiliar layout to the bedroom. Most of their things are still in boxes, only the essentials unpacked enough for Mike to find some sweats and a tee to sleep in once his tux is hung carefully in the closet. 

 

Mike runs through his night time routine, bumping Tom a little with his elbow as they navigate around the sink with their toothbrushes and mouthwash. Crawling between the sheets is a relief, no matter how short-lived. Taking a moment to close his eyes, Mike breathes and tries to let go of the sensation of hundreds of eyes and the weight of expectation he’s been carrying all day. The bed dips behind him as Tom settles in; it’s big enough that they have plenty of room to themselves, but Mike swears he can feel Tom’s body heat. He waits, breath held but Tom only moves to get comfortable; he never touches Mike, and - soon enough - the sound of his gentle snores fills the bedroom. Mike gives in after a while, too tired to keep fighting his sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Living with Tom is easy. They quickly discover that they’re both laughably bad at actually remembering to do things like grocery shop or cook; Mike can manage somewhat from the few classes he’d gotten in before throwing himself into hockey, but setting up a grocery service helps. They cobble their meals together well enough, between the few skills Mike has and Youtube.

 

Their taste in movies and music is similar, their humor, too, and Mike settles into their domestic life with relative ease. There’s still been nothing . . . well. Sexual. Quietly, Mike’s relieved. He knows it’s his duty as Tom’s husband if Tom wants it, but his noted lack of interest in Mike  _ like that _ isn’t something Mike is going to quibble over. He still has events to attend as Tom’s plus-one, fundraisers for kids and media days for the Capitals that get him mingling with the other spouses. 

 

It’s at the first one of these that Mike gets the idea for couples’ cooking classes. He feels a little dumb bringing it up, but Tom brightens indescribably when he does. They wind up huddled together around Mike’s laptop, picking through websites until they find a series for beginners that actually matches up with their schedule fairly well. 

 

“That’s gonna be awesome,” Tom murmurs, stretching and grinning over at Mike. “Great idea, dude.” 

 

And really, it is. The first class is fun, and Mike has to restrain Tom from going out and buying a whole new set of knives and cookware. They get in a second before the call comes. 

 

Mike gets traded. To Hershey, on paper, but there’s an invite to development camp that comes shortly after and, honestly, he had almost hoped for a different outcome. He’s a hockey spouse. Tom’s team -  _ his _ team, now - has brought him in on a 1 for 1 trade. A part of him is grateful for the chance. The rest of him resents not being allowed to try to make it on his own, to try to take the trade to Hershey and turn it into his own shot but - 

 

It’s fine. Tom’s thrilled, like he didn’t know this was coming, and Mike tries to pretend like he feels the same way. He won’t deny that camp is fun, if killer; the guys are great, even Backstrom who terrifies Mike just a little. Making the roster isn’t a surprise, but the way the guys don’t look down on him for it is. They call him Latts, rib him about his perpetual dour expression, and make little jabs about having Tom -  _ Wilso _ \- for a husband. Tom takes the jabs with grace and oscillates between defending Mike and joining in on the teasing. 

 

What Mike doesn’t get is when it starts to bother him that Tom treats him like any other teammate. That should be what Mike wants, but something about it rubs him the wrong way. He likes Tom, really likes him; they would have been bros, marriage or no, so Mike tries to buckle down, focus on hockey and doing his share in the household. ‘Tries’ being the operative word. The thought lurks in the back of his mind, that Mike’s not all that different from Tom’s teammates and other friends, and Tom certainly doesn’t treat him like it. 

 

They’re stretched out on the couch, watching DVR’d episodes of  _ The Bachelor _ on a night off when Mike finally asks. “What made you pick me?” 

 

Tom hums curiously, attention still mostly focused on the TV for a moment until he turns to look at Mike. “What now?” 

 

“Why me? Like.” Waving his hand at the TV, Mike digs for the words he felt like he had just moments ago. “You probably saw all these dossiers and met all these people, so. What made you pick me?” 

 

Tom shrugs, fiddling with his phone in his lap. “I didn’t, really. It’s still tradition in my family for parents to pick. They thought we’d have a lot in common, you know? With hockey. They thought you’d get it when I was on the road or if I got traded and we had to move. I mean, I got to read your dossier once they’d chosen it and I thought - I hoped we’d be cool. Make it easier for us both, you know?” 

 

“Oh.”  _ Oh _ . That stings more than Mike had anticipated. He’s glad when  _ The Bachelor _ recaptures Tom’s attention, leaving him to his own thoughts. Logically, Mike knows he shouldn’t be upset. From the outset, from the moment it became clear he’d never be courting brides but, instead, would be offered up for courting, Mike had hoped for an arrangement like what he has with Tom.   _ You should be happy _ , he thinks to himself, watching Tom shake his head at the antics on TV. 

 

Mike doesn’t have an answer why he isn’t, at least not about this. Hockey is good, even if he’s mostly playing an enforcer’s role. He’s making friends with the guys on the team and their significant others. He and Tom are signed up for an intermediate cooking class despite being a little intimidated at the prospect. So, he does his best to bury the twinge of hurt and self-doubt that comes from the conversation, for the sake of his sanity, if nothing else. 

 

Of course, this seems like a good plan until they’re out at a club with Ovi and a handful of the other vets. Tom gets up to go to the bathroom and Mike doesn’t notice he’s gone until Papa gives him a nudge, nodding toward where Tom is talking to another guy. Another guy who’s very much up in his space. For a moment, anger and jealousy flare blindingly hot in Mike’s gut, until Papa nudges him again. 

 

“I think your husband needs a rescue,” he whisper-yells against Mike’s ear. 

 

It’s then that Tom looks up over the guy’s shoulder and gives Mike the best pleading look he can. Pushing himself up from the table, Mike edges his way through the crowd until he can insinuate himself between Tom and the stranger, pressing himself up against Tom’s side. “Hey, babe. Who’s your friend?” 

 

Tom’s hand immediately lands on his waist, pulling Mike close. “Mike, this is Caleb. Caleb, this is my husband, Mike.” 

 

The guy - Caleb - hangs on through a few pleasantries before making excuses about finding his friends. To Mike’s surprise, Tom tugs him in even closer, pressing a soft, “Thank you” against his cheek before leading them back to the table. Jealousy still lingers in Mike’s chest, but Tom doesn’t leave again, sticking close until they’re both ready to go, tipsy and piling into a cab. 

 

“Mike?” Tom murmurs when they’re curled up in bed. “Were you jealous? Of that guy.” 

 

Closing his eyes against the way the room is tilting, Mike curls his fingers into Tom’s when Tom touches his hand tentatively. “Think so. M’sorry.” 

 

If Tom responds, he doesn’t hear it. 

 

Mike wakes - cotton-mouthed and vaguely headachy - with Tom’s arm draped over his waist. There’s a snuffle as Tom shifts, his warm breath puffing along the back of Mike’s neck and - 

 

And Tom’s definitely hard, his morning wood just brushing Mike’s ass. Mike tries not to tense, but he’s half-hard himself and Tom feels good spooned up behind him. He breathes slow, trying to decide what he wants to do before Tom actually wakes up. Really, he doesn’t think Tom would be a dick about turning him down if Mike asked; what he’s more concerned about is Tom saying yes, but want to just . . . keep it casual, the way their whole relationship has been so far. In the quiet of their bedroom, ensconced in Tom’s arms, Mike can admit that he doesn’t want that. He wants  _ more _ , wants to be able to lean in and kiss Tom when they’re on the couch or plane together, or hold his hand at team dinners, or - 

 

“Latts?” Shit. “What’s wrong?” Tom’s mumbling, still half asleep but trying to sit up all the same. Mike grabs his arm to keep him in place, grateful when Tom sinks back down onto the bed. Gently, Tom presses close to his back and wraps his arm back around Mike’s waist. “Mikey. Hey. What is it?” 

 

Mike doesn’t know what to say; anxiety makes his throat tight. He rolls over in Tom’s arms, taking in the sleepy-concerned look on his husband’s face. Taking a deep breath, Mike pushes himself up enough to press his mouth to Tom’s. His heart beats hard and fast and - for a handful of seconds - he’s lost to the pure thrill of kissing Tom. 

 

Carefully, gently, Tom cups Mike’s cheek and breaks the kiss. There’s a beat or two where the only sound is their breathing and Mike is sure Tom can hear his heart pounding. 

 

“Mikey. What - what was that?” 

 

Tom’s thumb is a cool point of pressure against Mike’s cheek as his blush intensifies. God, he feels  _ stupid _ , because Tom is looking at him a little bit confused and sad and Mike has definitely made a mistake, here. He tries to open his mouth and explain himself, but he chokes on the first word, and - to his horror - frustrated tears well up in his eyes as he struggles to give voice to his thoughts. 

 

“I thought - I -” Closing his eyes, Mike takes a slow breath. Tom’s still touching him, is still close, so he hasn’t scared him off, yet. “I think I wanna try doing this. Being in a relationship, for real. With you,” he adds, maybe unnecessarily. Tom looks a bit gobsmacked when Mike opens his eyes again, but he pets his thumb slowly along Mike’s cheek. 

 

“You don’t have to,” he finally says and Mike blinks at him in confusion. “Mikey - you know that right?” 

 

“I know that.” Mike half-whispers it. He knows Tom, knew that he’d never force Mike, but the lingering fear of beliefs that had been hammered in his brain was difficult to beat back sometimes. “I want to. Do you?” 

 

Tom’s quiet, eyes tracing over Mike’s face. It makes him self-conscious and fans the waves of anxiety rolling through him. He’s sure he’s fucked things up when Tom sighs, but then Tom’s leaning in and kissing him softly. “Yeah.” 

 

Mike laughs, anxiety and relief pushing the sound out of his mouth. Tom almost looks put out, but Mike just reaches out to touch his bottom lip, still wet from their kiss. “Yeah?” 

 

Mike gets another kiss in response, one that he lets himself fall into. He can feel his breath catch when Tom slides a hand down to his hip, but Tom doesn’t push further. They make out slow, until Mike’s mouth is hot and he’s embarrassingly hard. Tom pulls back first, giving Mike one last soft brush of lips. 

 

“I’m gonna shower. Then breakfast?” 

 

With a dazed nod, Mike rolls onto his back as Tom slips out of bed. He listens to the water start running in the shower and can feel a smile tugging at his lips even as he dozes among the sheets. 

 

* * *

 

The last thing Mike is expecting is to be cornered at a team get-together by Nicky. Terrifying, wonderful Papa Nicky, asking about the hickey on his throat with concern in his typically stony gaze and Mike has no idea how to push the words out of his mouth until Nicky says, “I just want to make sure he’s not -” 

 

“No,” Mike blurts. “No, I- we -” 

 

“Mike. It’s okay.” 

“We’re married.” That should be the obvious reason, but something dark flickers across Nicky’s face at that. 

 

“I know. But Mike, you can’t tell me that this isn’t new.” Green eyes flicker to the bruise-bite on his neck briefly and Mike can feel himself blush. 

 

“You’re right. It’s new. And it was my idea.” Mike looks over the lawn and just catches sight of Tom laughing with Holts. A curl of happiness winds up in his chest, and he does his best to let it show on his face as he turns back to Nicky. “I love him,” he says softly, a confession that he hasn’t made to anyone but himself until now. 

 

For a long moment, Nicky studies his face before one corner of his lips quirks up. “Alright, Mike.” 

 

It looks like he has more to say until Tom calls for Mike, breaking the bubble of seclusion they’d been in. Nicky just waves Mike off, really smiling now. Mike nods and goes to rejoin Tom, gladly taking up the defense of Tom’s honor against the tale Nate is spinning. He catches sight of Nicky later, pressed up against Ovi with their hands tangled together and smiles to himself when Nicky stretches up to steal a quick kiss, going pink when he realizes Mike has spotted them. Mike just shrugs and tugs Tom down to steal a kiss of his own, laughing against Tom’s mouth when the other guys start to catcall. 


End file.
